His Journey
by dauntlessonfire
Summary: What made Tom Riddle transform into the most evil Dark wizard of all time? And what was he before? This is the story of Tom Riddle's elusive journey from his sixth year at Hogwarts, to when he rose and fell as Lord Voldemort, with all that he learned about love, loss, joy, magic, and evil in between.
1. Chapter 1

The shrill sound of the bell awoke him from his reverie. Giving his head a tiny shake, Tom Riddle picked up his belongings and began to move out with the rest of the students thronging the corridor. Lessons for the week had finally ended and it could not have been clearer that everyone was eager to unwind for the weekend.

"Tom," a voice called out above the din, "a word, please."

Tom momentarily closed his eyes, trying to quell his annoyance. Plastering a polite smile on his face, he waved Avery and Nott off, and turned around to face Professor Dumbledore.

The tall, thin wizard with his sweeping auburn hair and half-moon spectacles was surely intimidating. Though everyone revered him, Tom found him slightly irksome. Maybe it was because he was the one person at Hogwarts that Tom had been unable to charm or impress. Indeed, Dumbledore always regarded him with the air of someone being unnecessarily cautious, as if he expected Tom to implode at any given moment.

"Yes, sir?" Tom asked quietly.

Professor Dumbledore took his time. With a wave of his wand, he levitated the tottering pile of essays on his desk, where they immediately began to reorganize themselves alphabetically in mid-air.

"I was wondering if I could have a word with you regarding your late Transfiguration homework." Dumbledore enquired, his voice placid but with an undercurrent of curtness.

He observed the young boy of sixteen before him with wary interest. Tom Morvolo Riddle had always been a mysterious, handsome boy, born and raised in an orphanage with exceptional magical skills and command. Indeed, many speculated how he might possibly be one of the greatest students to ever pass through Hogwarts, but that is not what fueled Dumbledore's curiosity.

In fact, it was the way this young man with the pale face, high cheekbones and dark hair conducted himself. He had an air of unquestionable power around him, and his ambition far exceeded that of others. Ever since Dumbledore had first informed him he was a wizard, he had kept a watchful eye on Riddle. For here was a boy who everyone doted over, everyone spoke so highly of. And yet, there always seemed to be something amiss.

"I apologize once again," Tom replied, his face expressionless.

Dumbledore sighed and moved behind his desk as the now organized essays landed with a thud in front of him.

"It has never happened before," Dumbledore remarked, his voice light, "I was wondering if everything is alright?"

Tom did not let his feeling of annoyance show on his face; he knew full well that Dumbledore was more suspicious than concerned. Careful flattery and a sharp mind alone could not convince this man.

"Nothing," Tom replied, "The workload proved to be too much, sir."

Dumbledore surveyed him for a few seconds, before his face broke into a small smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

"Very well, then. Off you go, Tom. Don't want you to be late for dinner. But if I must say so myself, the treacle tart is the real treat."

Tom let out a short laugh, bade him farewell, and turned around to leave.

As soon as he was out of the classroom, the smile slid off his face to be replaced with his usual, calculating expression. As he made his way down to the Great Hall, a group of girls paused and openly stared at him. Then one of them let out a loud giggle and they all hurried away, casting him furtive looks.

Tom ignored this. He entered the Great Hall, inwardly flinching at the loud sounds of students talking, laughing and eating. He would much rather have dinner when the Hall was emptier. He made his way to the Slytherin table and seated himself at the farthest end from the High Table.

The sky above was clear, cloudless and velvety. Immersed in his thoughts, he barely touched his food nor noticed when Nott seated himself opposite him and stared at him with awe.

"What?" Tom snapped, looking up. Nott hurriedly looked down and mumbled, "Just, wondering where you were."

Tom frowned and replied tartly, "What do you care? And if you paid more attention, Nott, you might've noticed that old man stopped me after class."

Nott nodded, and the suddenly burst out, "Did you ask him about Horcruxes?"

Tom observed Nott, his face expressionless, his mind racing. Despite his care and caution, despite his planning, Nott had still got to know that term and had somehow connected it to Tom.

Nott gulped and looked down again.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Tom said coldly, "and, mind you, stop mentioning such Dark matter in the Great Hall. I expected you to have at least minimal sense."

He got up and left the table, making his way down to the common room.

His mind was whirling at the mere mention of that word, his insides contorting with savage excitement. But he must control his feelings, he must first construct and execute a plan…

He bumped into someone and looked up angrily.

"Watch where you're going," he said dismissively, moving past the individual.

"I could say the same!" A girl's voice retorted. Paying no heed, Tom resumed his rumination even as he entered the mostly-empty common room. As he sat by the fire, as he made his way through the mountain of homework they had been assigned, as the others finished dinner and the common room slowly began to fill up, he thought.

That night as he got into bed, with the single word stubbornly lodged in his mind, he allowed himself a smile.

If it all worked out his way, he could have more than he hoped for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello to anyone reading this! :D Thank you for actually taking the time out to read this. I would absolutely love it if you guys could give me reviews. It's my first try at actually publishing something, any comments would be loved.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter *sigh* **

The following day dawned bright but cold. Tom was the first to wake in his dormitory. The instant his eye opened, he was on the floor, next to his trunk, rummaging around for the book he had borrowed from the library two weeks earlier.

He opened the front page and checked the due date. He frowned and shut the book with a snap. The book was due that very day. Resolving to extend the due date and even pick up another book in the process, Tom changed his clothes and exited the dormitory.

The common room was empty except for a few early morning stragglers and a couple of fifth-years who had woken early to revise. With a faint smile, he remembered his own O.W.L year and how worked up he had been, refusing to talk to people and surviving on a diet of coffee and nothing more.

He exited the common room, the wall ominously sliding shut behind him.

Thereafter, his mood seemed to lift considerably. Tom loved nothing more than roaming around Hogwarts, spending silent hours in secluded places no one else knew of. He loved this place, his home. In the moments when he wasn't obsessed with his ambiguous ancestry, or his quest to find out more and more of both sides of magic, he immensely enjoyed the lessons, the magic, the evenings in the common room, even the daily obligatory excursions to the Great Hall sometimes. He reveled in the praise he was always given, took pride in how appreciated he really was.

Lost in thought as he almost always was, he didn't realize when he had arrived at the library. He entered, shooting a charming smile at the librarian, Madam Pince, who returned the gesture and left him to his devices.

He approached an aisle at random and picked out a book titled _The Quintessential Guide to Arithmancy_, made his way to a table and sat down. He opened the book and began riffling through the pages to see if it were worth issuing.

A faint scuffling noise behind him made him sit up straighter. He turned around to see a girl pointing to the book.

"Are you issuing that?" she asked tentatively.

Tom shrugged and said, "Probably, yes."

"Oh," the girl said, drawing up a chair opposite him and sitting down. Tom raised his eyebrows questioningly, "I actually needed it for an essay."

"I'm sure the librarian has an extra copy," Tom said, his attention returning to the book, "you can ask her."

The girl sighed exasperatedly. Tom looked up again, an eyebrow arched.

"Don't you have anything better to do? I'm sorry, but I'm trying to study." He said forcefully.

The girl slumped back in her chair, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes.

"Fine, I'm sorry. Just, you took the book before I could reach it." She stood up and left for Madam Pince's desk.

Tom stared after her for a while, completely nonplussed. Then he returned to skimming through the book.

Fifteen minutes later he was issuing it, along with the book he had wanted to re-issue. Madam Pince cast him a skeptical look as if evaluating whether or not to allow him to take the book.

"Second time you've issued a book from the Restricted Section," she commented, narrowing her eyes, "you'll need a teacher's signature again."

Tom was prepared for this. He drew out a slip of paper and handed it to the librarian.

"Professor Slughorn," he explained quietly, "I have his permission to use the book for an assignment."

He spoke with confidence and finally, Madam Pince handed him the book with the extended due-date.

As he exited the library, he wondered what the use was of issuing the book a second time. He had spent hours poring over it, yet had not come across anything remotely helpful. Admittedly, it had provided some useful insight, but nothing more.

He had a quick breakfast before returning to the common room. But after enduring several long minutes of nothing but talk of the upcoming Quidditch match, a sport Tom failed to understand, he retired to his dormitory and opened the book once more.

And there, on page six-ninety-four, were the only words that were of use to him:

…_Considered by many as the most evil form of magic, perhaps second only to the foul Horcrux…_

That was all. Yet, the word had struck a chord in his head. He knew he had read of it before, but was not yet clear what its purpose was.

Just then, the door banged open.

A second-year stood there, panting.

"You've been…called…by Professor…Professor Slughorn to his…office. Right now."

Tom's heart sank in panic. But he quickly composed himself and got up and left the dormitory in an instant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello to anyone reading this! I finally got the time to work on a chapter and introduce new people. The story's finally moving along and I'm happy with the way's its (slowly) progressing! **

**Please review. I lurve reviews.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

He was hurrying through the corridors, his mind working up some sort of excuse, some way to wriggle out of the situation he had landed himself in…

Tom ground to a halt in front of Slughorn's office and knocked tentatively. At once, the door was thrown open and he took a step back to avoid Slughorn's prominently protruding paunch.

The pot-bellied wizard with his mop of straw-colored hair, his quivering mustache and his purple velvet waistcoat cast him a reproving but affectionate look.

"Tom, Tom!" he ejaculated, beckoning him inside.

Tom entered, closing the door behind him with a snap, his face impassive.

"You called, sir?" he asked politely, seating himself on a chair behind Slughorn's desk without invitation. Slughorn, however, seemed not to mind this. Indeed he chuckled to himself softly and walked around the table, shuffling through some papers dismissively.

"You've got nerve, boy," he said, laughing and giving him a wink, "you know you've got us in the Riddle trap, don't you? Well, then," suddenly his voice turned brisk though not unkind, "I have heard from Madam Pince that you have been borrowing books from the Restricted Section under my name?"

He had cut right to the chase. Tom allowed himself an internal grimace before collecting himself and replying, his voice hesitant, "Well, sir…I'm sorry… I just wanted the book and no one would sign the slip…and you're always so helpful. And Madam Pince never hesitates to issue a book if it's under _your _name, sir." He looked up, his eyes wide, "I'm sorry. It won't ever happen again."

Slughorn considered him a moment or two before his face broke out into a jovial smile and he waved his hand as if shooing away highly pestilent wasps.

"All is forgiven, Tom! Everyone makes mistakes. And you've got a clean slate, you were bound to do something wrong at least once…yes, yes…," he tailed off, his mind elsewhere.

Tom took this opportunity to interject and say, his voice still tentative, "Well, sir. I would hate to get away without due punishment."

Slughorn frowned and replied, "why, punishment? No, no…but you _have _committed an offence. I could let you off with a warning…,"

"No," Tom pressed on, watching the man's face carefully, "I'll do it!"

Slughorn shrugged and said, "Why, if you insist. Why not?"

Tom frowned, his expression changing instantly. That had backfired.

"How about tonight? Eight o'clock, my office. Nothing too harsh. I have a student who happens to be falling behind in Potions. Being the expert brewer you are, Tom, I would appreciate it if you could help them." He lowered his voice and added, "I would do it myself, but I've been wanting to go to Hogsmeade for a quick drink for a long time."

Tom blinked. Help another student? That was both difficult and unbearable. But Slughorn was letting him go off easy…much more easy than he had anticipated. He made a mental note to drop off a box of crystallized pineapple at his office, just to gloss things over.

"Yes," he said, trying to smile. He failed, however, and his face must have looked faintly strained because Slughorn shot him a concerned look before he clapped him on the back.

"Excellent!" he boomed, as Tom straightened, his back throbbing, "Eight o'clock then? Good, good."

Tom got up to leave. Slughorn led him to the door and held it open for him.

"Stay away from the Restricted Section, Tom," he advised in an undertone, "wouldn't want you to look shifty."

Tom gave a non-committal nod of his head. His back still aching, he headed for the common room once more.

He whiled away the rest of the day by not doing much, dreading when the clock would strike eight and he would have to _teach _someone. He had never anticipated that punishment could be so…punishing.

Word had gotten around quick that Tom Riddle, rule-abider, prefect and teacher's pet, had landed himself a detention. Either the people who spread these snippets of news were highly accomplished Legilimens, or news just circulated that way in Hogwarts. Strongly convinced of the latter, Tom bore it all, ignoring the looks and pats he received despite liked behind given a wide berth by people.

"It's as if they think I'm one of them now," he muttered to no one in particular as he sat by the ornate stone fireplace.

"Well, you are," Avery said, nodding impressively, "they didn't think you were able to break the rules or anything."

"Yeah," Tom said irritably, "breaking rules isn't a rite of passage or anything. Constructing your own rules to follow…and getting _known _for it…that should be worthy of praise."

The boys surrounding him lapsed into silence, exchanging looks with each other or gazing at him awe-struck. Despite enjoying this sort of attention usually, at the moment it irked him.

He got up and checked the time. It was five to eight. Without another word, he exited the common room and made his way to Slughorn's office several floors above.

Before he had even got a chance to steel himself for whatever lay ahead, Slughorn had thrown open the door and Tom found himself hastily taking a step back to avoid Slughorn's belly for the second time that day.

"Right on time!" he exclaimed, ushering Tom inside. A smaller table had been moved near Slughorn's desk; a cauldron and a set of brass scales rested upon it.

"She forgot her supplies and book," Slughorn commented, "ran to get them before I could let her lend some of mine. I think she's afraid of Potions," Slughorn sighed, "you get a couple each year. Anyways," he face brightened, "I'll be off, then! Just do whatever you do best, Tom."

And without any hint as to what exactly he had to do, Slughorn bustled out, wrapping a scarf around his neck.

Tom slumped down in a chair and cast a wary look at the table before him. Before he could try to derive anything from the state of her cauldron or scales, the door opened and someone walked in.

It was a girl with long dark blonde hair that was loosely curled. She had big eyes that were deep blue. She was quite pale, but not sickly pale as Tom often considered himself to be. She was probably around a foot shorter than him. And, with a jolt, he realized she was the same girl who had behaved so oddly at the library that very morning.

"You're supposed to be teaching me?" she asked skeptically, moving to the table and dumping her bag onto it. "But you're a student."

"I know that," Tom said, his eyes narrowed at her, "and you're the one who wanted my Arithmancy book this morning. How many subjects are you struggling with, exactly?"

The girl raised her eyebrows and shot back, "At least I struggle with a couple of subjects. You struggle with social interaction."

She turned away and tied her hair up in a knot, opened her book and then stared helplessly at the pages. Her expression was defiant and confused at the same time.

Despite himself, Tom was amused. He got up and held out his hand for the book. She reluctantly handed it over, her expression haughty.

"Let's try Baneberry's Potion," he said after moments of riffling through _Advanced Potion-Making._

"Isn't that a bit too dark?" The girl said uneasily.

Tom shrugged. "It's complicated. And only a brief overview is given in the book. Let's see how you manage."

The girl stared at him.

"You need to _help _me, not watch me crash and burn. Honestly, you don't know anything about teaching, do you?"

Tom clicked his tongue testily and snapped the book shut.

"Make a Befuddlement Draught then! I don't know, anything basic. Do whatever, I'll check later."

The girl shot him a venomous look before kindling a fire underneath the cauldron. Tom rolled his eyes and looked away, placing himself on Slughorn's comfortable chair and opening a book on his desk.

_This is going to be a long evening, _he thought, as he heard the girl set fire to her Potions kit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello fanpeople. Thanks again for all those who are reading this. I would love some reviews to know what you all think. It's a bit slow, and Tom Riddle himself is a very difficult character. But I'm enjoying this and I hope that you'll soon start loving this as much as I do.**

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter, I own not. **

The next day, Tom awoke to the sounds of excitable chatter. Looking around blearily, feeling as if it would be a bad day, he saw a number of fifth and sixth year boys all talking animatedly about Quidditch.

Groaning and rolling off the bed, he kicked open his trunk and pulled on a shirt. He stood there, blinking, trying to comprehend what was going on.

"Couldn't a guy get some privacy?" he mumbled, his voice unnaturally deep upon waking up, "Was it necessary to stage an emergency Quidditch convention here?"

A few fifth-years raised their eyebrows. Tom's group of friends, however, exchanged nervous looks before loudly saying, "Let's just take this to the common room. No point discussing it here anyway…"

They were all unceremoniously ushered out of the room. Tom rolled his eyes and checked the time and understood the excitement.

It was the day of the Gryffindor versus Slytherin match. Naturally, everyone was beyond excited. But Tom had never been able to understand the sport. He would, as usual, be skipping the match and staying in the castle. Perhaps he'd visit the library, catch up on some work.

By the time he arrived in the Great Hall, however, it became clear that doing so would be impossible; despite his aversion towards large, overjoyed crowds crammed into small spaces, he would have to go to the stadium. Both Slughorn and Dumbledore were watching him carefully, though Slughorn flashed him a grin when he caught Tom's eye. His recent incident with the forgery and Restricted Section must've somehow reached Dumbledore's ears. The eccentric wizard was now observing him with renewed interest and caution.

Feeling thoroughly violated and angry, Tom smashed the jug of pumpkin juice so hard on the table, it shattered.

"_Reparo,_" he quickly muttered under his breath, mending the broken jug at once.

When the Gryffindor team arrived in the Great Hall, he did not partake in the booing and hissing which issued from the Slytherin table. He had never found such activities interesting. Kylie Dashwood was moving up the Slytherin table, handing out green and silver rosettes and flags bearing the Slytherin serpent.

When Tom ignored the rosette she was pressing into his hand, she insisted, "Take it Riddle. Show some Slytherin loyalty for once!"

"Yay," Tom droned sarcastically. "I'm really not interested. Leave."

Offended by the commanding nature by which he had dismissed Kylie, she moved up the table, deliberately nudging an elbow into his shoulder.

Largely ignoring this, though feeling horribly irritated, Tom finished his breakfast and grudgingly made his way to the pitch with the rest of the students. He knew if he hung around behind, it would be suspicious behavior. He needed to be on everyone's good side, at least for now. He couldn't tarnish the reputation and trust he had so meticulously built up for six years…

The stadium was packed. Some would have said the euphoric, anticipative atmosphere was contagious, but Tom felt largely detached. He didn't register when the teams marched on to the pitch, nor when the whistle blew and they kicked off, whizzing around the pitch to much applause and screaming.

He was only vaguely of the score when a red blur whizzed past, precariously close to the Slytherin end. He followed the figure carefully and his expression cleared when he saw who it was.

It was the girl who had nearly set fire to the office the evening before. They had had a shouting match before she had stomped off. He hadn't paid her much thought since then.

But she kept repeatedly popping up. He had barely ever noticed her before, and now he saw her almost everywhere. One thing was for certain, though, he had not known she was on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

"Who is she?" he asked loudly above the screaming and singing of the crowd. "The girl on the Gryffindor team?"

A boy next to him squinted at the girl before answering, "Oh, her? The Seeker –" he suddenly groaned and booed with the other Slytherins as the girl streaked towards something near the ground. Tom impatiently waited, eyeing the girl as she pulled out of the dive, having just lost sight of whatever she was after.

"Why'd she do that?" he demanded as the Slytherins cheered and the Gryffindors groaned.

"…Because she saw the Snitch?" The boy answered, looking at him quizzically.

"The what?"

"The Snitch? The tiny golden ball that ends the game? Honestly, Riddle, why'd you come to the match if you don't even know about the _beauty _of Quidditch. Want me to give you a run-through?"

"No, no," Tom was hastily as the boy prepared to launch into a lengthy explanation of the sport. "I can manage. Anyways, you were about to tell me her name?"

However, the boy had lost interest in Tom as a green-clad player threw a large red ball into a hoop and everyone got excited. He didn't understand what was so fundamentally cheer-worthy of a human throwing a ball through a hoop. It was an old Muggle habit back in the orphanage Tom had always seen growing up.

The match ended with Gryffindor winning by a tremendous landslide. The team literally attacked the girl midair as she snatched the Snitch mere seconds before the Slytherin Seeker could. With the rest of the school cheering and celebrating, the sullen Slytherins made their way out of the pitch, Tom heaving a sigh of relief.

He wanted nothing more than peace and quiet. Too much human contact made him sick and he had to restrain himself from pulling out his wand and hexing everyone within sight next time someone applauded so excitedly over a ball going through a hoop.

Tom managed to go through the rest of the day and most of Monday and Tuesday without once seeing the girl. Once again he became immersed in his work, his research, and his thoughts. And it wasn't until Wednesday afternoon during double Potions was he rudely snapped out of his prolonged yet peaceful reverie.

Potions had begun as usual, with Slughorn treating him preferentially and praising him and then setting them the task for the day. It was a simple Draught of Living Death though as Tom looked around, he realized everyone was struggling with it.

"See here now," Slughorn said loudly over the bubbling of the cauldrons and the feverish chopping of ingredients, "Tom has managed to get the exact color of the potion in no time flat! Natural, he is!"

He moved away to the table the N.E.W.T Gryffindors occupied. Tom almost cut his finger as he saw that same girl once more, gingerly poking the contents of her cauldron. She looked up and reached for a few dried roots, her eyes meeting Tom's. She raised a questioning eyebrow at Tom's wide eyes.

How had she made it to N.E.W.T level? She was simply pathetic at Potions, as far as Tom knew. She couldn't have scraped more than an 'Accepted' in her O.W.L…

"What?" she said loudly and abruptly. Tom jolted back to reality and shrugged, returning his attention to his potion. The other girls at her table at once started giggling and poking her, casting him quick yet obvious glances.

Irritated, Tom looked up and said coolly, "I was just wondering how a person of your abysmal skill made it to N.E.W.T level."

The giggling girls gasped, staring at the girl, waiting for a reaction. She narrowed her eyes at him, and retorted, "Yeah? And how does a person as ugly as you make it through the day without shattering every mirror you look into?"

Nott reached for his wand, but Tom gave a curt shake of his head.

"I don't have time for this," he mumbled to him, returning to his cauldron. Oddly, he wasn't fuming or angry…he was just neutral. Absolutely no reaction except for a reluctant appreciation at the girl's sheer courage to test his patience.

Then again, she didn't know who she was messing with.

At the end of Potions he hurried away before he could be intercepted again. He could do without more encounters to tick him off.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello everyone (if anyone is even there. To anyone who actually reads this, I love you. Even though you're all silent) I am so sorry I'm updating late. I was busy. But, I made progress. Reviews plleeaasse. I know there are people out there who are reading, and I just want to thank you. It feels good to see I got hits. It would make me immeasurably happy and proud if I got reviews.**

**Let us resume.**

**Disclaimer: Turtles are cute and I don't own Harry Potter.**

They slowly moved into November, the weather becoming steelier and colder. As the days slipped by, Tom became more and more desperate to learn of Horcruxes and Dark magic. At night when he lay down and ruminated over everything experienced in the day, he realized that this manic desire had firmly taken a hold of him, making it impossible to think of anything but what preyed on his mind.

Additionally, he found that the girl had automatically factored herself into his thoughts. She was an intriguing individual, and he had begun to observe her more and more carefully.

With what he could gather, she practiced Quidditch almost day and night and hence almost always handed in assignments late. She was amazing in Charms; she excelled in that specific branch of magic, outshining everyone else with ease and without care. She worked hard in Transfiguration. She struggled in Potions. In Herbology, she worked fast and her hands moved nimbly. She tended to laugh a lot whenever he saw her in corridors.

Noticing her and her behavior had become habit now. He viewed her without emotion, in a detached manner. As yet, she did not seem to be interested in the Dark Arts or joining Tom's own group of 'friends'. Despite himself, Tom began to conclude that she was a powerful witch, an impactful personality. She would work well with the Death Eaters, as they called themselves. She might even be better than any of them.

Almost every time he found himself thinking such ludicrous thoughts, he became angry. Why bother paying so much attention to a girl whose name he had yet come to know of?

But he could not stop himself from noticing minute details. And so, the days wore on until one evening, he found himself in an entirely new situation.

Tom was in the library once again, poring over books, the lantern casting a small pool of light on the weathered-oak table. Madam Pince had taken to prowling amongst the shelves once more, hoping to catch any poor soul that even held a book disrespectfully.

The only sounds were of his quill scratching against parchment. He rather preferred to work here than in the common room, where the noise and general hubbub was unbearable.

Only the day before he had handed back the book from the Restricted Section; it was empty to him, and holding onto it any longer was both useless and impractical.

He dipped his quill in ink and let the tip hover above the page as he thought on what to write next. He looked up at the big clock on the wall behind the librarian's desk and frowned. The library would close in fifteen minutes.

He shut his book and leaned back, closing his eyes. He let out a deep sigh as someone tapped him on the shoulder.

He sat up straight and whirled around, his hand reaching for his wand in his pocket. He faltered as he realized who it was.

It was her again. Her dark blonde hair was hanging loose, lightly curled at the bottom. She was wearing mud-spattered crimson Quidditch robes, her black calf-length boots so muddy that Madam Pince looked to be on the verge of a heart attack.

"Professor Slughorn," she said, holding out her hand, "wanted me to give you this."

For a wild moment, Tom thought she was holding out her hand for him to hold and opened his mouth to say something when he saw the tiny scroll in her hand. It was tied with a maroon ribbon, the parchment heavy and expensive-looking.

He took it from her and unfurled it. It was a small meeting, for just a few members of the 'Slug Club' on Saturday at nine o'clock. He suddenly felt excited, elated. He had possibly found his window of opportunity…

He looked up at the girl who had moved towards a bookshelf. She pulled out a book and in doing so, toppled a couple of others. They came tumbling down the shelf and landed on the floor with loud thuds, and she winced with every sound. Red-faced and rigid, she pulled out her wand, gave it a wave, and the books rearranged themselves on the shelf neatly.

"You performed a non-verbal spell," Tom stated quietly. She started and looked around, not expecting to see him still there.

"Yes," she said slowly.

Tom stepped forward and said, "But those were multiple spells. No one in class has even managed single non-verbal spells."

The girl fidgeted uncomfortably before nodding and saying, "Well, yes. I…they're pretty easy. Don't you think?"

Tom shrugged and said, "They are for me, of course."

She raised her eyebrows. He found himself adding hastily, "Not to sound pretentious."

She gave a small laugh. "You sounded pretty pretentious."

Tom found himself smiling. "That's not necessarily bad. Sometimes you need it to make an impact."

She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully.

"I disagree," she said thoughtfully, "I think you can make an impact in many ways."

"But not a _permanent _impact. You will only make a temporary one," he said dismissively.

She frowned and said, "Riddle, I'm not going to run for Minister for Magic, you know."

He opened his mouth to make a scathing comment, but held back. He despised anyone using his surname, but he didn't feel like being rude to her, not now that he was actually getting to know her, something he found himself oddly enjoying.

"I'm guessing you'll try for Quidditch," he commented, gesturing at her robes.

She looked down as if remembering what she was wearing and then said slowly, "Yes…or I might teach."

This surprised him. But before he could reply, Madam Pince materialized out of nowhere and shrieked, "The library has been closed for ten minutes! Get out!"

The girl winced and hurried out. Tom grabbed his books, and followed her out. She was halfway up the corridor, but he caught up. She cast him a puzzled look.

"Teaching?" he asked, as if there had been no interruption, "Teach what? Charms?"

She shook her head and said simply, "Defence Against the Dark Arts."

This threw Tom. "But you don't stand out in class at all." He blurted out. Seconds later, he regretted it as he saw her narrow her eyes.

"You don't have to flatter the teachers and answer the questions and be _perfect _at something to like it." She said tartly.

"So," he said carefully, "the Dark Arts interest you?"

A dark look seemed to pass over her face. Tom watched her expression closely, calculatingly.

"No," she said firmly, "they disgust me."

Something inside Tom deflated a little. She did not, in fact, appreciate the beauty of the Dark Arts as much as he did. Indeed, she despised them.

"Sometimes," he said lightly, "the Dark is prevalent. Think about it," he said quickly as she raised an eyebrow, "The Light only exists to snub the Dark. Which means it was there before the Light. Which means it's stronger. It cannot be extinguished."

Strangely, she burst out laughing. He was slightly offended.

"That's poetic," she said, skipping a vanishing step on the staircase. Tom followed suit, still waiting for more, "And slightly emotional. Ease up."

Again, he was thrown. He could not find any way to respond. She had made it quite clear that his ideals amused her.

Suddenly, he realized what was happening. He, Tom Riddle, was walking along Hogwarts with some girl, actually conversing with her. This was unfathomable.

"What's your name?" he asked abruptly, feeling like walking away and continuing to converse, at the same time.

She opened her mouth to answer but suddenly tripped on the edge of the staircase. Without registering, Tom smoothly grabbed her arm and prevented her from falling. Unperturbed, he drew back his hand.

The girl, however, was suddenly unnerved. Tom looked at her oddly. Granted, he had actually voluntarily helped someone. But he couldn't have very well let her fall and just stood there, with so many people watching, could he?

"Victoria," she said finally.

He inwardly smiled. And then he inwardly frowned.

"It means victory," he stated.

She nodded, laughing, "I know that."

She was suddenly just standing there, not moving.

"What happened?" he asked, looking around, "Did you drop something?"

She awkwardly jabbed a thumb behind her. He looked over her head and saw a portrait of a plump lady in pink silken robes.

"Common room," she said, walking backwards.

Tom realized with a jolt that he was about seven or eight floors above the Slytherin common room.

"Gryffindor Tower?" he asked, suddenly interested.

"I'm not going to tell you the password," she said jokingly. "But where are the Slytherins?"

"The dungeons," he said, still looking at the portrait. He had passed by it so many times and never knew that just behind it, the Gryffindors resided.

"Depressing," she said, looking at him sympathetically.

"I actually quite like it," he said smoothly.

She shrugged and said, "But you must not have windows and it must be so cold and dark there. And empty. And…suffocated."

"We don't live in a tiny bare-walled chamber," he said, though not unkindly, "it's silent. It's comfortable. And I like it."

She shrugged once more. Then said, "So, good night then."

He blinked and nodded suddenly, saying, "Yes. Yes, okay. Um, good bye."

He turned around and hurried away. He was nonplussed, he was confused.

And deep inside, he felt content.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello my lovelies. Thank you so much for all the hits I've been getting. This chapter in particular is dedicated to , for giving me my first review. Thank you so much. You made my day. **

**To everyone else, please review. I want to know what you all think of the story so far. I decided long before that this story would be original, but heavily tied in with canon events. I love the little details, and I hope you notice them too. **

**Review, review, review. Thank you! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. **

_There is only ever power, and those too weak to seek it. _

The words reverberated in his head, ricocheting off the intangible walls of his consciousness. Was he conscious? He knew he was afraid. Afraid enough to not be present. He was afraid and that fear of being afraid terrified him. There was a loud, echoing scream, a flash of light immediately followed by pain and power and weakness and vulnerability and every powerful emotion in the world –

Tom awoke with a start, his breathing fast, and his forehead glistening with sweat. He looked around, white, pale faces looming out of the darkness, that flash of light still replaying in his mind, an endless echo…

He leaned back, closed his eyes and made a vain attempt to even his breathing. He could not. He still saw those faces. He still felt those emotions, though numbly.

_It was just a dream. _

But was it? Was it not a memory? Those faces in the darkness, he could not evade them forever. He would have to open his eyes; he would have to see them once more.

_Nothing is there. _

How was he sure? How was he sure that a ghostly, thin hand was not reaching out for him now? Grasping at the air, trying to grip him and relentlessly, mercilessly drag the life out of him?

His eyes flew open, his heart beating fast once more. His hand reached for his wand. He was trembling and he was cold. He gripped the thin strip of wood and it seemed to fill him with reassuring warmth.

"_Lumos_," he whispered, raising his wand aloft and bathing the room in a soft glow. The dormitory was still and serene, the gentle breathing of the boys around him suddenly filling his ears. No empty, white faces, no darkness.

He laid his wand down and ran a harried hand over his face. With a sickening jolt he realized his face was wet, that he had been crying in his sleep. He wiped his face, anger bubbling inside him, a sudden urge to run away taking a firm hold of him…

He spared no time. He got up and changed his clothes, his mind working so fast that his thoughts were meaningless and fleeting. His wand-tip still casting that comforting glow he so desperately needed, he walked out.

He walked with no specific direction in mind, paying little heed to the portraits casting him curious and stern looks, striding past the pale, floating ghosts, through corridors and up stairs, the only sounds to be heard were the tremendous grinding of the staircases as they moved, and his quick footsteps.

After what seemed like an eternity, he burst into the Owlery and walked straight to the nearest window, taking in deep breaths of the jarringly cold and crisp night. Amber eyes peered at him from the rafters; soft hoots greeted him as he leaned against the glass-less window, his hands gripping the edge so hard that his knuckles stood out, pearly white.

He opened his eyes, surveying the dark, velvety grounds, the mysterious trees of the Forbidden Forest, the large black mirrored surface of the lake. The moon shone so bright that it seemed impossible that mere moments ago he could barely hear anything above the rush of blood in his ears and the terrified beating of his heart.

He took in another deep breath, this time taking in the smell of hay, wood and dried grass.

He looked down at his hands.

He was weak.

In these moments, when the suppressed memories of all he had done rose to the surface, he was afraid. Afraid of those empty, staring eyes and the infinite darkness within which they dwelled. In these moments he wanted nothing more than to scream loudly and let go of those explicit, irrevocable fears.

_It must be so cold and dark there. And empty. And…suffocated. _

Her words came drifting into the confines of his mind and he closed his eyes, marveling at the sick irony of her words.

Tom _was _suffocated. He despised the cold and the dark. She was so unknowingly accurate. No one knew the dark, twisted place his existence was. He kept it at bay, he forced his nights to be dreamless and empty. But it did not work and here he stood, weak and exhausted and recovering slowly from the after-effects of having a nightmare he called a memory.

For the first time in years, Tom slept in on a Saturday. He could hear the distant sounds of booming thunder and the loud patter of rain when he awoke. He got out of bed and looked around at the empty room. The events of the previous night came to him all of a sudden but he suppressed them just as quickly.

The Great Hall was more crowded than usual this late on a Saturday. People were casting wistful looks at the stormy sky above, the sound of the rain drowning out all other noises.

He made his way to the Slytherin table, where Lestrange was hastily scribbling on parchment and desperately trying to finish an essay for Potions. Avery sat next to him, reciting long passages from his book for Lestrange to copy down.

As soon as they saw Tom, their voices faltered. They looked at him carefully, as if they were afraid.

"What?" he demanded, pulling a bowl of porridge towards him. The previous night's incident had miraculously increased his appetite.

"Just," Lestrange started, his voice low, "we were wondering if you're about to do something."

Tom paused and gave them a cold look.

"What does that imply?" he asked once more, staring at Avery.

Both averted their eyes. Then Lestrange spoke, "We do not wish to be intrusive. It is after all, your life, and you can do whatever you want but," he voice rose a little, "this happened last year too, Vo -"

"_Do not use the name here_," Tom hissed, banging his fist on the table. He composed himself quickly and then said, "Keep your voices down. What happened last year?"

Lestrange gulped. Avery was staring at Tom in reverence and fear.

"The Chamber of Secrets!" Lestrange burst out, "We knew it was you, you could have asked us for help. And now we all _know _you plan something Dark and effective –"

"Lestrange," Tom said in a tired voice, "I do not need anyone's help. None of you have the power to have opened the Chamber. I was a fool to attempt doing so last year. It nearly rid me of my home. I regret it, but that does not mean I regret not asking for your assistance. Simply put," he shrugged, "I never needed your help."

Avery hastily said, "But your current plans –"

"I have no 'current plans'," he said, cold and clear, "I have no idea what you're both talking about. And I implore you," he added, "to stop gossiping and trying to decode my intentions."

Avery looked down, abashed. Lestrange frowned and said slowly, "But that girl…Oaks? What do you plan to do with her?"

Tom stared at Lestrange, puzzled.

"Oaks?" he repeated, nonplussed.

"Victoria Oaks," Avery interjected, looking up, "does she have a pure-blood lineage?"

"The Lestranges," Lestrange said suddenly said proudly, "have contacts with almost all pure-blood wizarding families. And I, for one, have never heard of the name Oaks."

Tom looked from one to the other. He quietly got up and said in an emotionless voice, "You should probably finish your essay, Lestrange. You don't want to be put into detention, do you?"

He walked away, feeling angry at both of them. He operated alone, he did not like people meddling in things that he did. But they looked to him for guidance, they identified him as their leader.

In his thoughts, he walked straight into someone. He stepped back, realizing it was a teacher. He apologized at once, bending down to pick up the books that had fallen from the teacher's arms.

"It's alright, Tom!" Professor Merrythought chimed, looking at him fondly, "You're such a sweet boy."

"I apologize once more," Tom added, noticing the parchment she was holding. He caught the words 'retirement' and 'pension' and raised his eyebrows.

"Surely you aren't leaving Hogwarts?" he exclaimed, looking at her carefully.

Professor Merrythought tutted, gesturing for him to lower his voice.

"No one knows as yet," she said, "you should not either!"

"But how could you leave?" Tom insisted, "You've been here for close to fifty years!"

She considered him and took in his politely astonished expression and flattering voice before saying, "Old age, I'm afraid. As much as I love teaching, I can no longer handle learning of new things. It shocks me, I'm far too weak now, Tom. Take that book in the Restricted Section I found the other night, for example. Terrible! No, no. Someone much younger than myself should come in and someone more _adaptable _to things. Why, at my time, I barely knew – Tom? Tom, is everything alright, dear?"

Tom's mind had gone into overdrive, excitement filling him up. His expression must have betrayed him.

"What book?" he demanded sharply. The woman stared at him, thunderstruck. His voice had changed so drastically.

"Excuse me," Tom hastily amended, "but what book?" he pressed on, searching her face for any sign.

"I forgot the title," she said slowly, "I read one page and felt sick. I must ask Dumbledore to remove it at once. I just remember it being bound in black leather. But why?"

Tom blinked, his thoughts racing. He started walking away, leaving the woman staring after him quizzically.

Soon he was hurrying through the corridors, pushing past people, hardly sparing anyone or anything a glance. Within minutes he was at the library and striding towards the Restricted Section. He stepped over the rope carefully and felt the atmosphere suddenly change. Sinister, darker, eerier, as if the books themselves were emitting evil.

He found the book in moments; Merrythought had hastily stuffed the book back in its shelf the night before and in her haste, had placed it upside down so that it stood out at once. Tom walked towards it and ran a longer finger down its spine. It was not coated in dust, like the others. It had recently been handled.

He quietly pulled it out and ran a hand over the black, weathered cover. He opened it, handling the old book with care. The first page announced the name of the book: _The Secrets of the Darkest Art_.

He skipped to the contents page and ran a finger down the long list. And there it was, the word he had been searching for ages: _Chapter 7: The Horcrux._


	7. Chapter 7

**Let me start off today with a huge THANK YOU to all those who read, reviewed, favorited and followed. I love you all; you fill me with the motivation I need to do something I have wanted to do since I could write the alphabet. **

**Unfortunately, I will not be updating so regularly after this chapter. I have exams (*sobbing*) but then I am free. So worry not, once these exams end, I shall regale you all with chapters and updates and we shall frolic like unicorns (do they frolic?) because I shall be free. **

**For now, this chapter means a lot to me. Mostly because I rewrote it four times. But also because **_**this **_**is the point I believe the story is nudged in the right direction. **

**I welcome all reviews. So please review. **

**Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I could actually invest in breeding horses and rainbows together to from unicorns. Sadly, I do not. Onwards! **

_The Horcrux._

His fingers hovered over the page, drinking in the words with his eyes. After searching for so long, he had found everything he needed. It was all here, no ambiguity and no uncertainty. The word itself was not shrouded in mystery. It was in plain sight, it was right _there _in front of him.

A tiny part of him was afraid. Afraid of being unable to turn back once he took the plunge. It was no longer a matter of searching; it was before him, as clear as day. Now it was only a matter of application. Was he prepared for that?

Tom Riddle had always been besotted by the concept of immortality. Only the weak could succumb to death. Only the ambitious and powerful were cunning enough to evade it. If man were made to walk the earth, if man had built and improved everything within sight, then was he not capable of living forever? Why construct a realm only for someone else to inhabit?

He leaned back, his long fingers poised over the page, the secrets he yearned for only a turn away. He looked up, his dark eyes probing the room. In his haste to discover the book, he had settled to peruse an abandoned classroom on the seventh floor. A thick layer of dust coated every surface within sight. The grimy windows let in minimal light. He liked it here, the stillness not too stifling but quite _there._

He cast the two words another hungry look before turning the page. And then the door was flung open and he flinched, the book falling to the floor with a resonating thump.

"I cannot _believe _you did that," a voice said in affronted tones.

Tom recognized the voice and closed his eyes, his jaw clenched. She tended to ruin the most perfect moments.

"Did what?" he replied smoothly, surreptitiously casting a Concealment charm on the fallen book with a flick of his wand.

Victoria stomped up to where he sat behind the abandoned teacher's desk and folded her arms. She looked both offended and cross.

"There is no point in lying, Riddle. I was in the library when you nicked that book!"

"Keep your voice _down_," he hissed, standing up quickly and striding towards the door. He closed it with a snap and then turned to face her. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Victoria rolled her eyes and waved her wand almost lazily. The book Tom had concealed only moments before re-materialized, looking innocent and faintly forlorn.

Before he could stop her, she had walked towards it and picked it up gingerly.

"Why were you following me around?" he asked sharply, his heart skipping a beat as she examined the cover and then opened it.

"I was _not_," she retorted, still not looking up, "but generally, when you see a person stealing a book from the Restricted Section and locking themselves in a deserted room, you follow them."

"Or you leave them alone," he said, observing her expressions carefully. He could easily have jinxed her, cast a Memory charm, and run for it. But somehow, he couldn't force himself to do it.

Victoria turned a page and her eyes scanned it swiftly, her brow slowly creasing as she took in the words.

She looked up. Her blue eyes were wide, her face was pale.

She was afraid.

He crossed the room to where she stood, still frozen. He considered wrenching the book from her grasp but instead, gently pulled it away.

"Believe me Victoria," he said, an odd sensation filling his insides as he voiced her name, "you don't want to know."

She was quiet for a while. She seemed to be at a loss for words.

Then, finally, she said in a strained voice, "That's…that's some pretty Dark stuff in there."

He sighed and sat down, feeling an odd rush of sympathy for her. It struck him how odd it was to actually feel bad for somebody, an emotion he had never felt before.

"Look," he was staring at the cover of the leather-bound book, "I don't know what freaked you out so much. But," he looked up, frowning, "you really shouldn't be meddling."

"I wasn't meddling," she said sharply, her pallor slowly receding, "I would have followed _anyone _if I'd seen them steal a Dark book-"

"Because you're just that nosy?" Tom replied tiredly.

She looked at him, the usual humor and light in her eyes gone. She seemed to considering the best way to smack him across the face.

"Because of what happened last year." She said, her voice cracking a bit towards the end of her sentence. She looked away but ventured on, "Because I think it's _disgusting _how good things are mutilated and deformed. And I hate the idea of people like you _appreciating _this sick-"

But Tom was not listening. His insides had contracted, his eyes had gotten wide. He was looking at Victoria, something in his mind clicking into place. He seemed to go into a trance, his brain going into over-drive.

The previous year when he had discovered that he was the heir of Slytherin, that he had the power to open the Chamber of Secrets, he had been thrilled. At the time, he had felt overjoyed, basking quietly in the knowledge that he alone could complete his ancestor's noble task and rid his home of Mudbloods. It had not taken long to put the plan in effect; awakening the beast and setting it upon those he deemed unworthy to attend this school was easy. Facing the repercussions was difficult. Indeed, upon the first attack, talk had gotten around of the school being shut down. No matter how hard he had tried to persuade Dippet, his destiny of returning to that dreaded orphanage forever seemed to loom nearer. And with the first death, his fate had been sealed.

It was around that time that his panic-stricken mind had sought to grasp at any straws he could find. It had been a difficult decision but an easy task to pin the blame on Rubeus Hagrid. But all thoughts of that had been driven from his mind when he had been hailed as a hero, though not publicly. A shield had been given to him, as a sort of placation to stay silent. Hogwarts had opened once more. Everything seemed to have settled in…

Except for those who had been Petrified. The victims had spent many weeks, perhaps months, in the hospital wing, their lives ground to a halt.

Tom had felt no remorse. When they had been healed, he had paid them no heed.

He was jolted back to reality and found himself staring at Victoria. She had stopped talking a long time back and was now looking at him with a mixture of fear and curiosity. He did not know how long he had been sitting there that way, stock-still and wax-faced.

"You were attacked?" he blurted out suddenly, getting up and beginning to pace the length of the room.

Victoria took some time to reply. But finally she said, "Yes, I was."

Her tone was casual, but her face betrayed the fact that she was still shaken.

He halted his pacing, his ears buzzing.

"You were Petrified? By the Basilisk?"

She bit the inside of her cheek and looked away. She managed a nod.

Tom exhaled, observing her profile carefully.

Maybe when someone is faced with the truth of what they have done, they realize. For a man to spend his life in blissful ignorance is easy. But to understand who they are and what they have done is perhaps the most difficult task of all. At least, for him it was. But at that moment, when he realized that he had set a giant snake on Victoria Oaks with the intention to kill, Tom had never felt more suffocated his entire life.

A tiny voice in his mind said it was unintentional, and in any case, she was of Muggle parentage, she did not deserve to be at Hogwarts. Why feel actual remorse now? He silenced the voice. It surprised him. He never had. His biggest protector had been himself. Incidentally, he had always been protecting himself _from _himself and his reality.

It was how the powerful remained powerful, he always reasoned.

Was this remorse? It felt terrible. It was worse than actual physical pain. There was always a fine line between normalcy and whatever lay beyond. He had crossed that line long before. And so, being in contact with such fundamentally _humane _emotions did nothing but weaken him.

Victoria was observing his pale face almost worriedly now.

Tom had led two children in a dark cave and tortured them into silence. He had not felt remorse.

He had forced animals and children alike into coercion, doing what he wanted them to do. He had played God with their fates. He had felt no remorse.

He had opened the Chamber of Secrets, he had terrorized the school, and it had led to the murder of a girl. He had felt no remorse.

He had walked to the village of Little Hangleton. He had raised his wand and done the worst thing he could possibly have done. He had used the Killing Curse, had raised his wand to kill. The memory haunted him to this day.

He had felt no remorse.

And now, as he stared at her face which was alight with concern, Tom Riddle felt remorse.


	8. Chapter 8

**I AM BACCCCK. **

**Thank you so so so so SO much for the reviews, the favorites, the follows, and the hits. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Tell me what you think. If you have any questions or crazy theories, PM me and I'll most happily respond. **

**For now. Please please please plllleaassee review. I like reviews. They sort of make my whole day. **

**I hope you enjoy. This is in celebration of my exams (nearly) ending. I love you all.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

**Onwards.**

_He was a young boy with dark hair and darker eyes, clutching the edge of the doorframe, his knuckles white, as he peered into the room in horror. _

_A young boy with a mop of straw-colored hair was sobbing hysterically, jabbing a finger at the rafters repeatedly. Around him, the entire staff stood concernedly, trying valiantly to console the boy and avert their eyes from the small mangled body that hung above them._

_Tom unclasped his hands from around the door's edge and stumbled backwards, his heart beating faster than it had ever had; he turned around and tried to head to his room, but a voice called out to him._

"_Tom!" a woman's voice said sternly. "Come back here!"_

_His eyes darted from left to right, more out of pure desperation than anything else. But he was not one to run away. He turned around and faced the woman before him. _

"_Did you have anything to do with Billy's rabbit?" she asked hesitantly. Tom observed her, watching the astonished way her eyebrows were raised, and the stern way her mouth was set. She did not believe any person, least of all a child, could have been capable of this. She was trying to maintain an air of stoic strictness, but her eyes betrayed her. _

"_No," he lied, "I did not."_

He jerked awake, panting heavily, sweat beading his forehead. The image of the small creature's body seemed burned into his eyes; wherever he looked, he saw the same vision and heard the same broken cries of an orphan who had lost his only friend.

He pressed a cold hand to his eyes, chastising himself for letting these dreams return.

_Not dreams, _he reminded himself, _memories. _

He got out of his four-poster and picked up his wand. He lit it and carefully slid his hand underneath the mattress of his bed. After a few moments of groping around, his fingers collided with something solid, and he pulled it out.

He kneeled there, the watery dawn light filtering through the window, holding the book he had found. His most prized-possession, an object he had forsaken his perfect record and reputation for. But what was defamation compared to the wealth of information he could find in this book? His mind drifted back to the image of the rabbit, its corpse slowly swaying as it hung by the rafters. Death. In all its glory. It was the single most terrifying thought Tom had ever encountered.

He changed his clothes in silence, and then stepped out of the dormitory, softly closing the door behind him. He wanted to avoid his eager band of followers and their entailing questions as much as he possibly could. He walked out of the empty Slytherin common room, the wall sliding shut behind him and making the tiniest of noises; a noise which reverberated around the cold stone dungeons.

The corridors were cold and dark, the frigid winter air blowing in through the high mullioned windows. His feet seemed to be carrying him to the Owlery once more. He had discovered that there was no peace and quiet like there was in the Owlery, the residents of which did not bother him and he ignored them in return.

A few moments later, he was sitting by a bare window in the Owlery, the soft hooting of owls the only sound he could hear. His eyes were hungrily scanning the pages of his new-found treasure, drinking in random bits and pieces before he could actually start devouring the actual content. He remembered reluctantly how he had been interrupted the last time he had tried to study the book. But that event had taken place nearly two weeks back, and he had not seen or thought of her since.

_Her. _In Tom's mind, there was the rest of Hogwarts' population, and then there was her. She stood out, and he did not know why. He could not judge her accurately, he could not predict what she would say or do next. And not only did that bother him, but it made him all the more interested in her.

Before his mind could trail off once more, he concentrated his thoughts back to the book. He flipped it open to the seventh chapter, the chapter on Horcruxes. And he began reading.

At first, the words made no sense to him. The language was far too old, the methods of magic advanced, even for him. He had to read one paragraph five times over to make sense of what was being discussed, to understand the significance. The finer details were gruesome, and of the Darkest nature he had ever encountered. But it seemed so _simple_, the goal so within reach, though the truth was far from this notion. He knew that, but his entire body was humming with such excitement and trepidation that he did not care.

It involved murder. It involved killing and tearing apart the very fabric that defined a human. It was cruel and twisted and sick. But there was one outcome that trumped all others – immortality.

He got up and glanced out the window. The sun had climbed a bit higher up in the sky. Tom had not realized how long he had sat there, immersed in the book.

As he walked through the corridors and past the students, teachers, and ghosts, he felt more distant than ever. He knew so much, and these vague, purposeless people knew such little.

He turned a corner and looked up. He was in a deserted corridor, with nothing but a huge tapestry hanging opposite a blank wall.

He moved closer to the moving picture, always having been amused by it. It depicted a young man trying – and failing – to teach a group of trolls ballet. He kept being repeatedly clubbed over the head by the trolls, who seemed more interested in torturing the man than learning how to pirouette.

He heard a short laugh behind him and turned around, his hand moving to his wand. Upon seeing who it was, however, he froze and his heart jumped to his throat, much to his annoyance.

"I'm sorry!" Victoria said quickly, her eyes wide. Her dark golden hair tumbled around her shoulders, and something was tightly clutched in her hand. Her face was pale. She pointed at the tapestry and said in a small voice, "Just…I always find it funny."

Her lack of boldness was so uncharacteristic, that Tom frowned and couldn't help but asking her, "Is everything alright?"

Victoria raised an eyebrow at his display of concern. Tom realized how odd it might look. He amended the situation by shrugging and turning away, through his insides were screaming with curiosity.

"I'm in trouble," she blurted out. He turned around, his eyebrows raised. She nodded and continued, "I smashed this vase with my broom as I was returning from practice, and it…I couldn't repair it, even though I tried. So I…I basically shrunk the pieces down and carried them up and I don't know where to hide them…," she trailed off as she noticed him laughing silently.

Tom tried composing himself, haven't genuinely laughed this way in a long time. But it was just funny how she panicked so much over a trivial thing.

"Wait," he said, still smiling. He moved towards her and she slowly opened her hand to reveal minute shards of porcelain vase.

"You don't really think straight," he mused, picking up a piece. "You could have applied a Vanishing charm, maybe?"

Victoria frowned and replied, "I wasn't calm enough to think of that. I mean," she looked up at him and he felt a horrible swooshing sensation in the pit of his stomach, "what if it was extremely old and expensive?"

Tom, still recovering from the inexplicable – and highly unwelcome – somersault his stomach had just performed, studied the shard between his fingers carefully.

"I think you should get rid of it," he said decidedly, dropping it back in her open palm. She let out a frustrated sigh and began pacing, muttering, "What an absolutely _terrific _idea. I'm sure I, a Hogwarts student who has to get to Potions in ten minutes, can find a perfect place to hide the remnants of a vase the caretaker will _obviously _not notice."

"Perfect timing for sarcasm, Oaks."

"Since when have we been on last-name basis?"

"It's not first-name, is it? What else do I call you? Confused Panicked Gryffindor Female?"

Victoria smiled a little, though the worry was still evident on her face.

"You're weird," she commented, still pacing. "but oh, god, I wish I could stuff it in some arbitr-"

She stopped pacing abruptly and stood frozen, facing the empty stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, who was still struggling through the momentous task of teaching trolls ballet.

At least, it _was _empty. An intricate door had materialized seemingly out of nowhere, and both of them were staring at it in shock.

Victoria shot him a look and asked in an incredulous voice, "Was this door here before?"

Tom was shell-shocked. He shook his head and walked past her, touching the door's surface.

"It's solid," he said quietly, running a hand over it. On an impulse, he pushed it open. It swung inside easily.

Inside it was dark, but he could tell it was gigantic. It also seemed to be utterly silent. He took a step forward, but was pulled back. Confused, he turned around to see Victoria clutching his arm, her expression both afraid and curious.

"Are you crazy?" she hissed, letting go of his arm. Tom blinked, still unable to process what had just happened. She stood on the tips of her toes and peered into the room over his head. At first he thought she was afraid, but then he noticed her pulling out her wand.

"Wands out," she said, moving past him and over the threshold, "who knows what's in here."

He couldn't help it; he admired her bravery. Whether it was utter stupidity or remarkable courage, he could not tell.

She was already inside. He took out his wand and followed her.

"_Lumos_," he whispered. He held his lit wand aloft, surveying the room with barely-masked astonishment.

At least, he assumed it was a room. It was much, much larger than that. It was crammed with hundreds upon hundreds of random…objects. The cavernous room was piled high with an assortment of seemingly arbitrary items. Tom moved deeper into the room, his eyes scanning the place with fascination. He craned his neck up and discovered that he could not see the top of the mammoth pile he stood next to.

"What is this place?" a voice whispered. Tom started, having almost forgotten she was there.

"I…don't know," he replied, watching a dull and dented Snitch flutter past.

"Is that a bird cage?" Victoria laughed, pointing at something. Then she stepped back and said in a hoarse voice, "Oh, god. There's something in there."

Tom raised his eyebrows and walked over to where she stood, stepping over a cauldron which was half-full with some long-forgotten potion which had congealed over the years.

He examined the cage and saw the misshapen skeleton inside.

"It's a Five Legger," he said finally, pointing at the legs, "they're illegal. How did someone get it _in_ Hogwarts?"

She looked at him with a puzzled expression and said slowly, "You think we're in Hogwarts?"

Tom shrugged and picked up a tattered-book from a small mound. He turned it over and brought his wand-tip closer.

"_Hogwarts: A History_," he read aloud. He flipped the book open and his eyes widened.

"This version was apparently published in the 1700s," he said quietly, dropping the book back to its pile, "this place is definitely old. And," he cast another look around at the towers of phials, books, cauldrons, quills, shoes, chess-sets, statuettes, and various other items, "it looks to be some sort of…place for hiding things. And mostly only used by Hogwarts students."

"But where did it even come from?" Victoria demanded, opening her palm and letting the small shards of the broken vase join a pile of Gobstones.

"Is that a gold cauldron?" Tom mused, walking over to dully-gleaming cauldron behind a large cabinet.

"Where did this place come from?" Victoria thought aloud once more. "It's…_amazing_."

"Pixie eggs," Tom frowned, bending over the cauldron, "and are those _dragon scales_?"

"You're very easily distracted."

"No one even knows this place exists…,"

Victoria gestured around and said, "No, nobody does, Riddle. All these things just randomly popped up."

Tom looked up sharply, opened his mouth to retort, and then thought better of it. Apparently, the room had been frequented by many students before. But how come he had never heard of it, or even read of it?

"Did you use an incantation to enter?" he asked, straightening up.

Victoria shook her head.

"I was just…pacing? And I was hoping some place could appear where I could hide the vase pieces. But then I wondered just turning it in. It can't have been _that _valuable, right?"

"It was actually Rowena Ravenclaw's." Tom said seriously.

Victoria's eyes widened and she let out a little squeak.

Tom smiled and shook his head, saying, "I'm not serious. I actually have no idea what that vase was. Maybe it was just that. A random decoration piece. Stop panicking."

She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully, then nodded. There was an awkward silence for some while. Then a clock somewhere deep within the room let out deafening chimes.

"_Slughorn will murder me_," Victoria exclaimed, walking back to the door. She pushed it open and ran out, leaving Tom standing in the room alone. Then he blinked a couple times. He walked deeper into the room until he found a large cupboard. He opened it, the door squeaking ominously. It was fairly empty, apart from a blood-stained silver dagger, a corked bottle of what looked to be Veritaserum, and a large, chipped skull.

He pulled _Secrets of the Darkest Art _from his bag. He had nearly forgotten it with all the recent discovery. He carefully placed it on the top-most shelf. He was tall enough to reach it with ease. Then he carefully closed the door to the cupboard, turned around and left the room, promising himself to return later.


	9. Chapter 9

**Greetings, creatures of the fan realm. I won't take long – just a tiny note confessing my undying love for all of you. Thank you. **

**PLEASE REVIEW. **

**Disclaimer: I own Harry Potter (not).**

"That's a very fascinating theory, but I doubt I am subconsciously capable of conjuring up huge hidden rooms," Victoria sighed and leaned back, laying her quill down on her half-finished essay, "are you sure you can't help me with the essay?" she added hopefully.

Tom shook his head, exhaling irritably and flipping through _Hogwarts: A History _almost feverishly.

"How don't I _know _about that room?" he muttered, staring at the pages as if commanding them to reveal the exact nature of the hidden room on the seventh floor.

"I advise you drop it," Victoria said darkly, "who knows what would happen if you try opening it again?"

Tom shook his head, snapping the book shut and drawing a second one closer to him. This one was bound in red leather, with a huge golden clasp. The embossed gilt letters on the cover simply read _Hogwarts _and nothing more.

He cast a look around, feeling both his temper and desperation rising. All around him, students sat at small tables, their heads bent low over their work, scribbling away on parchment. Madam Pince prowled the shelves, narrowing her eyes at anyone who looked up for more than a few minutes.

"You know," Victoria said in a low voice, snapping Tom back to reality, "usually when people want to discuss conspiracy theories, they _ask _the other person if they would care to partake in the discussion also."

Tom opened the heavy crimson book and sighed exasperatedly.

"This is a thousand and sixty eight pages," he said, closing it with a thud. Madam Pince snapped her neck in his direction so swiftly, he thought she surely must have cricked it.

"Tom," Victoria said loudly and forcefully, "I'm really not interested in finding out about the room."

He sighed, his stomach giving him an uncomfortable nudge when she said his name. He had tracked her down to the library where she was trying – and failing – to finish her Potions homework, and had regaled her with a hundred or so theories of what the room possibly was and how they could find it once more.

"You're really the only one who knows about it," he said, reluctantly opening the heavy book once more, "and I _need _to discuss this. How are you not even _faintly _curious?"

This, on Tom's part, was somewhat a lie. The day they had discovered the colossal room had been the day his entire life had taken a rather strange turn. Suddenly, Hogwarts housed a thousand more mysteries, and he had to solve them one by one. A sudden fleeting moment of panic had overtaken him as he had realized he barely had two more years left at Hogwarts, and that his curiosity and manic desire to _find out _about the room had to be sated immediately.

Coupled with this was the single irrefutable fact that he could not stop thinking about Victoria. He feared it had progressed from wary, detached interest to a certain level of liking. It made him angry, and confused, and made him want to shut down his mind and refuse to accept the direction things were heading. It was simply unfathomable that he could bear someone for more than two minutes, and then too _after _finding out what use they could be to him.

But Tom had accepted, though grudgingly, that she was too independent to be made use of. Not that he would try.

Which was _another _thing that irked him – how he treated her differently. Never in sixteen years had he voluntarily sought someone out and speculated about a hidden room. Deep down, he knew it was only because her take on things fascinated him. He blatantly refused to accept there was anything more to it.

"That was five days ago," she replied, without looking up from her essay, "can't you just accept the fact that it's _magic_?" she sighed, looking up and dropping her quill once more.

"That's not a satisfactory enough explanation," he said stubbornly, turning a page of the book. It was an odd sensation, knowing that she accepted him in turn. He had wondered if she would shun him; maybe tell him to go away once he sat down on the same table as her. But she hadn't, and he was more than fine with that.

_Shut up, _he thought viciously to himself.

"What's the name of that stone that cures poisons?" she asked, chewing the end of her quill thoughtfully, "Bozo?"

He looked up at her. Her expression was completely serious.

"_Bozo_?" Tom intoned incredulously, "Are you serious?"

She frowned and crossed out the word.

"Fine. Beezo?"

"It's a bezoar," he sighed, smiling a little, "we learned that in first-year."

"That was six years ago!" she said defensively, amending the sentence on her parchment.

He exhaled once more and pulled the essay toward him.

"I still don't know how you made it this far," he muttered, reading through the essay.

"Magic," she said contently, pulling the book he had abandoned nearer to herself and riffling through the pages absently.

"You know," she said thoughtfully after awhile, "maybe I can discuss your crazy theories _if _you do my Potions homework for me."

Tom looked up, his eyes narrowed.

"That's dishonest," he said dismissively.

"So is stealing a book from the Restricted Section," she shot back, her expression mimicking his.

He glared right back, noticing the way her hair fell around her shoulders, how her eyes were this strange shade of blue-green –

"I'm leaving," he said abruptly, getting up.

"But the essay!" she protested, following suit, "I was only joking about the book, you know."

He paused for awhile, picking up the mound of books he had collected in the past half hour. He couldn't quite explain to himself, let alone anybody else, how violated and strange he felt when he harbored such thoughts about her, as if it were fundamentally wrong. Which, he supposed, _was_ in his case. After all, when was the last time he had even remotely felt this way? Quite honestly, never.

Which made it all the more frustrating.

"The essay's fine," he said, moving away. She waved her wand and it tightly furled itself into a scroll. She shrugged, looking a bit crestfallen.

"If you say so," she shrugged, sitting back down and pulling out a fresh piece of parchment from her bag, "I'll just get started on Arithmancy, then."

She busied herself in her work. Tom walked away, his back rigid, his expression stony. Just looking down at the pile of books in his arms seemed daunting; going through each one seemed a laborious task, and one which he was not at all ready to go through. Not when he knew he had better things to do.

As he walked out of the library, only having borrowed one of the numerous books he had picked out, the back of his mind nagged at the book he had left in the hidden room. He wondered if he could nip up to the seventh floor during lunch when everyone was in the Great Hall. However, he realized with a crushing sense of reality, he really was helpless without Victoria. She was the one who had _somehow _opened, so she was the only one who could do it again.

* * *

He was creeping up along the sixth floor staircase, trying not to make a single sound. He had narrowly avoided the Bloody Baron twice; despite being the Slytherin ghost and him being a Slytherin himself, he knew that he would not be treated preferentially if he were found creeping around the castle at four in the morning.

Leaving the common room had been a task. First, he had to avoid Nott who was curiously up during the odd hour, practicing a non-verbal spell. Obviously, Tom had been questioned endlessly, and Nott had offered to accompany him on his seemingly ambiguous nightly excursion. It had been difficult to evade him, but miraculously, he had.

Then there had been the slight delay when he had run into the group of _house-elves_, all of them either replacing the logs in the fireplace or straightening the ornate emerald green rug which lay in the center of the common room. Upon seeing him, they had all shrieked in unison and disappeared with loud, resounding _cracks_. Unnerved, he had still ventured out.

And now he stood in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, who guarded the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. He had thought it through carefully. He was confident he could get in, provided his strategy worked.

The plump lady snored away, her head resting on the frame. She was snoring quietly, her huge chest rising and falling with her steady breaths.

Tom cleared his throat sharply, and the Fat Lady awoke at once, her eyes flying open. As if on instinct, she grabbed the thin-stemmed wine glass poised next to her.

"Who is it?" she questioned blearily, flicking her eyes around until they finally rested on Tom. "Oh," she said, placing the wine glass back on its small painted table, "I thought it was the Baron."

"No," Tom said, smiling just a little, "just a student."

She narrowed her eyes, unconsciously straightening her pink silk robes.

"You're not a Gryffindor," she declared, her mouth set, "no entry."

"What if I had a password?" he asked teasingly, smiling his best smile.

She was not to be moved.

"I doubt you do," she said with finality.

Tom paused, and then moved closer to the portrait. Her eyes widened, but he gave her a reassuring smile.

"Just examining this beautiful artwork," he said quietly, "such fantastical, accurate strokes."

"Oil paints," the Fat Lady replied smugly, relaxing a little, "one of the oldest paintings in the castle."

"Really now?" Tom asked quietly, raising his eyebrows in careful incredulity, "How fascinating. And not even a single tear."

The Fat Lady smiled even more contently, fixing her brown tresses, "Well, I am restored periodically. Can't have a valuable portrait fall to disrepair, can they?"

"Of course not," Tom agreed, nodding, knowing that his charm was working on the woman, "in fact, had you not told me, I would have thought you were a new portrait. Either portraits do not age, or you're just that new."

"Really?" she asked a little worriedly, "Do you mean that?"

"Every word," he said earnestly.

She lightly touched her face, pulling her flabby cheeks tighter against her lost cheekbones.

"I was going to ask someone to fix my skin," she said, looking at him imploringly, "it seems to be getting rather loose, isn't it?"

Tom shook his head, frowning.

"I think everything looks _perfect_," he said, flashing her another smile, "I would change nothing."

She tittered, and the settled back contently, beaming at him widely.

"Now," he said, slowly, still carefully holding that air of light flattery, "it would be a pleasure if you could let me enter the place you guard. They picked possibly the best portrait in the castle for this purpose."

She regarded him, with just a hint of suspicion. Then her face broke out into a smile, and she shrugged.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt, if you put it that way," she said slowly. Tom kept on smiling, his face muscles hurting slightly now, "but only if you tell me what the portraits are like around the dungeons," she dropped her voice, "I've never gone there before."

"Oh, we don't even _have _a portrait," he said at once, "I suppose Dippet doesn't consider us worthy enough for one."

She nodded distractedly once more, then she added, "I'll only let you in for ten minutes. Nothing more. This is breaking rules but," she let out a small, nervous laugh, "sometimes it's okay, I suppose."

"It's more than fine," he reassured her, holding out his prefect badge, "trust me."

She held his strong gaze for a moment, then swung open to reveal a circular hole.

Without further ado, Tom clambered through it, and stepped into a spacious common room, stocked with plushy red armchairs and a warm-looking fireplace. There were large windows, and a staircase that led up to the dormitories.

This was the point he was unprepared for.

_Now what? _He thought, blankly looking around.

He heard a door close upstairs and cast around for someplace to hide. He took out his wand, tapped the top of his forehead and quickly muttered a Disillusionment charm under his breath. He looked down to see his hand disappear from view just as someone reached the bottom of the staircase and look around.

His mind – and stomach – performed a series of jarring flops, when he saw it was Victoria. She was casting a look around sleepily, a green dressing-gown pulled around her. Her hair was open and messy, sleep still evident in her eyes.

She stifled a yawned and shuffled to an armchair and plopped herself down in it.

Tom moved slowly towards her and lifted the charm before he faced her, so as not to scare her. Then he walked around the side of the armchair.

At first, she blinked up at him blankly, then her eyes widened and she let out a scream.

Wincing, he clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling her yells.

"Shhh, he said frantically, "are you _insane_?!"

Victoria – her eyes wide- frowned. She wrenched his hand away and said in a low but furious voice, "I could say the same! _Why are you here? _Are you out of your _mind_? How did you _get_ in here?" she paused, her eyes getting wide once more, "Oh, my god. Are you here to _kidnap _someone?"

Tom shrugged, saying, "In a way, yes."

"_What_?!"

"Look," he said, checking the clock on the wall above the fireplace, "I have only six minutes left -"

"For what?"

"Would you shut up and _listen _to me, just this once?"

Victoria folded her arms and retorted, "I'm not the one who broke into someone else's _common room. _How did you even _do _that?"

Tom slapped a hand to his forehead.

"_Why can't you just shut up?_" he hissed, exasperated.

"Okay, fine. Please, continue with your thrilling tale of kidnap."

"I can't, only five minutes left."

"Then hurry up."

He observed her for a moment then said carefully, "We have to go to the seventh floor corridor."

Victoria's mouth fell open. She stared at him in utter disbelief.

She let out a weak laugh and said, "You're joking, right?"

Tom shook his head, checking the clock once more.

"I am serious," he said, moving to the portrait hole, "this is the only time we can go and actually investigate."

"I'm not budging, Riddle," she said adamantly.

He let out a frustrated yell and started pacing, saying, "I did _not _wake up in the middle of the night for you to throw a tantrum. Now can we get out of here?"

She seemed to be considering him, and enjoying his frustration at the same time. Finally, she got up and said, "You do my Potions homework for a week."

"No way." He said firmly.

"Then go find the room yourself," she said airily, turning back and heading toward the staircase.

Tom weighed the situation, his eyes flicking over to the clock once more. Finally, he gave in.

"One week," he said stiffly.

She turned around, grinning.

"Let's do this then," she said happily, striding past him and out through the portrait hole.


End file.
